Chapter 2
TWO
AARON
Something feels familiar about this girl, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I follow her into her apartment, eyes tracking the back of her head as she unlocks her door, a heaviness settling in my chest. I feel like I’ve seen her before. Her face is familiar. Her eyes are familiar. Or maybe she looks like someone I know…
I don’t fucking know.
Does it matter?
She moves ahead into her small foyer, nervous energy in every step. I can hear it in the way she exhales, see it in the way she fumbles with her keys before plopping them into a bowl on a small table.
“I don’t usually bring men h—” She turns to face me but cuts herself off, shaking her head with a laugh. “I’m not sure…”
I get it.
I don’t do this shit either—go home with strangers, sit on unfamiliar couches, pretending I’m a chill guy when I’m not. When I’m pissed and wound up this tight, I skate until my legs burn and there’s sweat dripping from every pore in my body.
My eyes scan her place, settling on the beige painted living room, the bookshelves lining the far wall. The plants. The big floor-to-ceiling windows.
I follow her to the couch because, the truth is, I want to forget that my teammate is fucking my girlfriend and that’s been the only thing occupying my thoughts.
I want to forget the look on his face when our eyes met.
I want to forget the look on hers. The betrayal.
The way my life managed to implode in a single day.
I don’t want to think about any of it.
The woman offers me a drink, two wine glasses and a bottle in her hands as she curls up on the opposite side of the couch, one leg beneath her.
I decline. Don’t trust myself with alcohol tonight.
She gives a shy smile, pouring one for herself, hands trembling as she does.
Jumpy. Excited?
The air crackles.
What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me. And judging by the terrified look on her face, this isn’t her, either.
I shift uncomfortably, feeling too big for this room. Knees knocking the coffee table as she takes a dainty sip from her glass, eyes on me over the rim of it, the dim lighting in the room casting a warm halo over her blonde hair.
She looks gentle. Sweet.
Angelic.
“You don’t have to stay,” she says quietly, offering me an out.
I force out a chuckle. “I know.”
But I don’t move.
In fact, I feel more intact on the couch than I had before, and the silence stretches, sounds from the apartment more pronounced. The hum of the heater kicking in. Pipes. Noises from the floor below.
The rasping of my own breathing.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter, gaze skimming her body again, watching color brightening her clear, smooth skin.
“I know,” she whispers. “But…”
She hesitates.
My brows raise as I wait for her to finish her thought. “But?”
“You’re here now.”
I feel the scowl on my face as I rake a hand through my hair. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
Her mouth curves. “I’m not.”
I remind myself that she’s a stranger and we owe each other nothing. She hasn’t asked my name, nor I hers.
“You hungry?” she blurts out suddenly. “I’ve got popcorn. Or leftover pad thai?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
She nibbles her bottom lip nervously. “Want to tell me about your long, bad day?”
A curt headshake. “Nope.” I pause. “You want to tell me about your shitty date?”
Her position shifts on the couch, and she settles deeper into the cushions, pleased to have a topic to grab on to. “I’ve been dating this guy named Preston.” She laughs softly. “His name should have been the first red flag, right?”
“That is a douchey name,” I agree.
Her eyes light up. “Tonight he ordered me a drink without asking what I wanted. Which would be fine, if he knew what I liked.”
There are worse offenses, I guess. “Strike one?”
“I’d asked him out because…” She sucks in a breath. “I have a new job—one I’m really excited and passionate about. One that pays.” Another small laugh. “And this asshole had the nerve to say, ‘But you’re not actually the one making decisions, right?’ He said that! To my face!”
“Christ. He does indeed sound like an asshole.” My jaw involuntarily tightens. “Guys who talk down to women like that are pieces of shit.”
“Wait, there’s more.” She gets more animated. “He implied I only got the job because of nepotism!”
I don’t ask for details. “That’s strike two and three.”
She nods emphatically. “So freaking rude. Then he had the freaking nerve to tell me I was being sensitive. Me! Sensitive.”
I bite back a smirk. I don’t say it, but she looks like the sensitive type. Too sweet and too kind and too trusting. Not in a weak way, in a feels things deeply kind of way.
As if an unkind word might break her.
She leans back into the couch cushion, sipping from her glass. “I knew I should’ve trusted my instincts. Probably shouldn’t have agreed to keep going out with him.” A long sigh. “Such a shame. He looked so good on paper.”
“Paper. That’s how they get ya.”
Her eyes brighten in my direction. “Exactly.” She takes another sip of her drink. “Okay. Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“Long bad day. Go.”
My brood settles back in. “I would rather not.”
Her lips part.
She sips from her glass. “W-what would you rather do?”
I glance at her, give her a good, long look.
Blonde hair that isn’t sexy like Bailey’s—it’s soft. Loose. She has a fucking ribbon tied in it, for Christ’s sake. The satin bow is tied as a headband, hair falling long and wavy around her shoulders, totally out of place in a moment like this. She should be rumbled and in sweatpants and…
The bow is pink, of course.
This woman is giving innocent in all the ways I’m not used to, and that’s a problem, isn’t it? She looks good and pure in ways that have nothing to do with lust.
Our gazes connect again.
“What would you rather do?” she asks again, without stuttering.
She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table, the soft clink the only sound in the room. Then she looks back at me expectantly.
Waiting.
I shift closer.
Give her time to pull away—or kick me out.
She doesn’t. Instead, her breath hitches almost excitedly, eyes dropping to my mouth. When she licks her glossy lips, it’s all the permission I need.
I tell myself that she’s not some perfect, untouchable thing.
She’s the kind of woman who invites a stranger she met less than an hour ago up to her apartment. The kind with balls big enough to walk out on men and make rash decisions—it’s a coincidence that she seems sweeter than sugar.
She’s not an angel.
I am no savior.
I am a mess. I’m angry and raw and still bleeding out from Declan, from Bailey, from everything I didn’t say and everything I did. Mourning the loss of whatever mediocre relationship we had. Mourning my friendship.
I shouldn’t be anywhere near someone this soft and good.
We move at the same time, drawn together like magnets, and before I can think better of it, my rough fingers curve around her jaw. Thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
Exploring.
Warm. So warm.
I trace along her jawline, then down, following instinct more than intent, marveling at how easily she leans into it. Like she trusts me even though she shouldn’t.
My hand trails lower, down the slope of her neck, the pulse there fluttering, and I touch her like she’s fragile.
Breakable.
I inhale; she smells clean and pretty and floral.
My hand trembles as it skims her shoulder then back up again, sweeping gently up the column of her throat. Porcelain.
Pure.
This woman is nothing like Bailey, who spent years standing outside stadium locker rooms and afterparties before landing me—and now Declan Kennedy. A career gold digger if I ever knew one. Lesson learned.
I scowl as their faces cross my mind, the comparison briefly souring the moment…
I cup her face.
She tilts her chin instinctively, eyes searching mine as my forehead dips closer, her palm sliding up the front of my chest. Gently.
Tentatively.
I kiss her.
A brush of lips at first, gently pressing my mouth to hers. Her lips are warm. Pliant. Yielding.
She sighs as if content when I explore, lips kissing the corner of hers, one corner then the other… her bottom lip. It’s full and pouty and puckers when I swipe my mouth over it, trusting that I’m going to find the rhythm.
That’s the fucked-up part. We shouldn’t be doing this because I don’t even know her fucking name.
This girl clearly does not belong with someone like me. Rough. Hard around the edges. Newly jaded. Bitter. Bruised inside and out, my heart a bit broken…
I break the kiss long enough to breathe out a rough laugh, my forehead dropping to hers.
“This is a terrible idea,” I murmur, voice low, wrecked.
Her answer is a dare. “Then stop.”
She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
A flip switches.
I sweep her up without warning, one arm under her thighs, the other firm around her back. She gasps, excited, hands flying to my shoulders, breathless laughter spilling out of her as I turn and carry her down the hall.
“Put me down, I’m too heav—” she starts.
“Shh,” I cut her off, already in motion. Already committed.
I don’t ask where the bedroom is, my body simply knows. Plus, the apartment is small enough to navigate without directions, and I move toward the one hallway.
The bedroom door is exactly where it should be. Her back hits the wall beside it with a soft thud as I set her down but don’t let go. I brace myself in front of her, caging her in, her chest rising and falling fast.
Wanting. Alive.
“This,” I say into her neck, lips brushing against the pulse in her throat. “This is the part where you tell me to fuck off and slow down.”
She swallows.
Lifts her chin.
Doesn’t tell me to fuck off.
Doesn’t tell me to slow down.
I hook my hands under her thighs and lift her higher. She gasps, legs instinctively wrapping around my waist, back pressed harder into the wall, hands clutching my shoulders.
I kiss her again—nothing tentative about it now.
Open-mouthed kisses. Hungry.
Tongue.
Teeth.
I nip at her lower lip, enough to elicit another breathless sound from her throat that goes straight to my spine. Our kisses are wet and sloppy, my hand moving from her ass to the hem of her shirt…
Then higher…
Skim beneath, palm brushing warm skin…
She arches into it, a soft inhale against my mouth that tells me she likes it.
Skin.
Heat.
I groan.
Too much and not enough, all at once.
I carry her into the bedroom, setting her down in the center of the bed then crawl onto the mattress, hands braced on either side of her, chest rising and falling.
Her hair is a mess.
Her lips are parted and swollen from kissing. Her eyes are dark and wild and searching, like she’s trying to figure out what I’m going to do next.
“What?” she whispers into the faintly lit room, the only light coming from the city lights—and the full moon—outside the windows. Shadows bounce off the walls.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror; avert my eyes before I decide I don’t like what I see.
I swallow.
Shake my head. “Nothing.”
Her eyes meet mine, then she does something that steals the air from my lungs. She begins undoing the buttons of her baby blue shirt.
Deliberately.
One button.
Then another.
The fabric parts inch by inch, revealing pale skin, the smooth slope of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her unsteady breath. My gaze follows every movement despite myself as the shirt slips from her shoulders and she reveals herself.
Sheer lace bra.
Delicate looking; the pretty kind with a tiny bow between her tits. Absurdly sweet.
Ridiculously sexy.
Leaning down, I press my mouth to her stomach. She shivers beneath me, fingers tangling in my hair as I trail lower, kissing a path across her flesh, slowly heading south, fingers moving to the snap on her jeans.
I work it loose and ease the zipper down.
Pull the denim past her hips, thirsty for a sight of her pussy. For the taste of it.
A thrill of the unknown—but the all too familiar—zips through my body as I remove them, tossing them to the ground beside her bed.
My hands do not linger longer than necessary; they don’t explore. I don’t touch her tits or suck on them. I move with purpose, practiced and uncurious, positioning her because that part doesn’t require thought.
I could do this shit blindfolded.
In college, I probably did.
When it’s over, I sit up, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and slide off the bed, unable to give her any kind words to think about after I let myself out of her apartment.
She’s curled on her side, lashes resting against her cheeks, breathing slow and even. Peaceful. Pink ribbon finally unraveling around the halo of her hair.
I pause, watching her sleep, relieved that she’s passed out and we don’t have to… I don’t know—cuddle and shit. Letting her stay sleeping is kinder than lying about my intentions to see her again. Or make promises I’m not going to keep.
She shifts beneath the blanket, making a small sound in her throat when I pull her bedroom door closed behind me.
I pull on my shoes, glancing up at the wall in her small entryway.
Stop short.
Frames line the wall, photos I hadn’t noticed when I came in. Smiling faces. Group shots.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, squinting at a familiar jawline, and I step closer, studying it.
Declan Kennedy.
Older in one photo. Younger in another. Arm slung around the shoulders of the woman whose pussy I’d eaten out, moaning and gasping and withering on her sheets.
My stomach tightens. No fucking wonder she looks familiar.
I stare at the photos a second longer than I should, until the rustle of sheets and blankets being thrown back have me reaching for the door handle, all the delicious pieces of the situation clicking into place.
I inhale when I give the photo wall one last glance. “Holy shit.”
This is Declan’s sister.